


Can We Talk?

by el3anorrigby



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Illya Always Worries For Napoleon, M/M, Napoleon Always Wants To Protect Illya, Resolved Arguments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-18 00:26:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5890945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As usual, Illya is angry at Napoleon for his reckless behaviour. Normally, Napoleon will try to deflect Illya's argument. This time, however, he feels he will need to address the situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can We Talk?

Illya is angry. 

Napoleon had again tried to be a human shield for him, protecting him like he needs saving all the time, and the fact Gaby thinks Illya’s ego gets dented every time Napoleon saves him, thinks that is why Illya gets so worked up, just makes it worse. He does not care for his ego, what he cares about is his partner, a crazy American who has no regard for his own safety, and that just drives Illya a little mad. 

“Why are you watching me, Peril?” Napoleon asks his partner before he drains the last of his scotch, puts the empty glass on the table in front of him.

Illya narrows his eyes to meet Napoleon’s, fixing him with an intense gaze. 

“I'm not.”

His voice is low and gruff and he knows at once that Napoleon can see right through him, knows exactly what he is thinking. But knowing how Napoleon is, Illya understands he wants to draw the words out of him until he admits what is currently racking his brain.

“Peril,” Napoleon starts, leans forward from the sofa he is sitting at and grabs Illya’s hand. The Russian, standing at the foot of the furniture, does not pull back but Napoleon’s firm hold on his wrist makes him swallow the unexplainable lump that has taken place in his throat.

“You think this will make me feel better? After your idiotic stunt earlier?” he asks quietly, his chest tightening somewhat from the look he is receiving.

Despite the anger he is feeling, he pulls Napoleon up to his feet and then the American starts blabbing out what he wants Illya to know.

“I’m sorry, Peril. I can’t help myself. It’s instinctive. It’s my second nature. Whenever I see you in trouble, I’d immediately do what I’d need to do to protect you. Like it or not, you’ll just have to live with it.”

“But why? Why do you do this?” Illya demands, tries to stay indignant.

“You know why. Don’t ask me something when you already know what the answer is.”

Illya swallows emptily, a little bit stunned, a little bit horrified at what Napoleon is trying to imply. He tries to dismiss Napoleon’s idea. “It’s stupid, Cowboy. And you know it!”

“You know what I'll remember the most from this mission, despite almost getting shot at, again?” Napoleon says instead, changes the subject while ignoring Illya’s futile attempt at denying what is inevitable, and apparently trying hard to not say the wrong words too as he moves one hand up Illya's arm. Illya on the other hand merely shakes his head, not believing that this is happening, not believing that once again he is going to lose out on their argument. 

“What?” he asks Napoleon despite himself, his anger slowly dissipating.

“I’ll remember that you actually _do_ care about me, despite whatever you might say, Peril.”

“Solo, I think you have too much to drink. You—you are clearly drunk.”

Illya’s voice is remarkably steady in spite of that little stutter. He tries to take a step backwards but is hindered by the arm now resting at the base of his neck. What is Napoleon doing?

  “Oh come on, I haven't lost my mind because of a few drinks. I’m not Gaby.”

Napoleon closes the distance between them and Illya can easily tell every single part of their bodies that are currently touching. He closes his eyes and draws a slow breath, tries to clear his mind. He should just walk out of their room and not come back, not until Napoleon starts acting rationally again. But then again at the same time, there is this little voice in his head keeping him from simply telling Napoleon to stop messing with his head. A little voice asking him, if this, honestly, is not what he wants. And he is damned if he doesn't know what to answer.  

“This mission has opened my eyes. For how long should we keep on pretending?” Napoleon mutters.

As he feels Napoleon’s hand cupping his face, Illya’s eyes shoot open, only to look into a pair of blue, entrancing ones. He had wanted to respond to Napoleon’s scathing question but words are lost on him. His breath hitches and he swears the temperature just went up a notch.

The next thing Illya knows, Napoleon has completely closed the distance between them, brushing his lips tentatively across Illya’s, slowly snaking his arms closer around his neck. And before Illya could understand what the hell he is doing, he lets himself be pulled closer and his lips part voluntarily under Napoleon's. He is letting himself be pulled into a mind game he has no idea how he will get himself out of, but right now he doesn't really care. Not really. Not while Napoleon’s lips are doing delicious things to him and his own hands are currently busy unbuttoning his partner’s white shirt. Illya thinks he might regret this, but he has been wanting this as well. So much. 

He pushes those unwanted thoughts away as he feels Napoleon's tongue swipe over his, pulling a low moan from the back of his throat. Buttons suddenly forgotten, his arms move to circle Napoleon’s waist like an instant reflex, as Napoleon lets go of his lips and starts kissing his way down his neck. Illya shivers under his touch, can’t help but feel how right this feels. It is all too dizzying, too much, too soon (even if he has waited for this for ages), too strange, but at the same time, Illya can’t stop it.

  He cups Napoleon’s face and brings it up to his, their eyes locking for a few moments that feel like hours before he pushes Napoleon backwards, his legs hitting the edge of the sofa, and they both fall on the cushions with Illya landing on top of the American. Napoleon smiles up at Illya as he leans on one arm, peers down at Napoleon with questioning eyes.

“Peril? What’s on your mind?”

“I’m still angry at you. This does not change what I think earlier. Of your stupidity.”

Napoleon simply murmurs. “I know.” He doesn’t want to argue with Illya anymore. He wants something else. 

Illya exhales as he sees the heated, intense look in Napoleon's eyes and for a second he is scared of all these feelings roaming wild inside him. Anger, fear, want, lust, love.

 He is pulled out of his thoughts by the feeling of Napoleon placing a soft kiss on his chin before moving to his neck, kissing his way down to the hollow and back up, his hot breath sending shockwaves of pleasure down Illya's spine. He moves to capture Napoleon’s lips again, lets himself be pulled along on Napoleon’s merry way. 

 As their tongues battle for dominion with muffled sounds of pleasure in between, Illya’s hand move to the waistline of Napoleon’s pants, pulling the shirt out from where it is tucked in, and the feel of cold hands against hot skin makes Napoleon terribly aware of how tight said pants has become. He has to swallow hard as one hand starts fumbling with the buckle of his belt, but before he has time to respond in any way, Illya withdraws and moves his hand slowly up his chest. Napoleon’s barely audible sigh of both disappointment and relief reaches Illya’s ears, who smiles a little as he pulls away slightly to look at him.   

“It's too hot in here,” is the only coherent thought Napoleon is able to voice right there and then.

“You think so?” Illya replies as he moves in to nibble softly at Napoleon’s bottom lip, and then, “Because of this, is it?” 

Napoleon exhales sharply as Illya pushes his hand gently against the tightness in his pants, his pulse speeding up instantly. Illya hums into his mouth, the delicious tingling sensation doing nothing at all to calm Napoleon’s racing heart. As Illya's lips move to his neck, Napoleon fumbles to grab the offending hand, but Illya merely pushes down a bit harder, making Napoleon arch his neck and mutter something like _'oh god'_. He tries to get a hold of himself, but it isn't easy when the man on top of him is doing what he is. 

  “Illya, really, I don't know if this where we should do this. We should move to the…” he murmurs, tries to articulate his thoughts the best he could but is cut off by a finger on his lips.

  “Stop talking.” 

The next second, the finger is replaced by Illya’s moist lips crushing against his with an urgency Napoleon has never experienced. And he can only kiss him back and the next time Illya’s hand is pulling at the buckle of his belt, Napoleon doesn't do anything to stop him.   

 

*** 

 

  “Wake up, Cowboy.” 

  Napoleon hears the words far, far away, but the feeling of lips on his own has him waking up instantly. Without opening his eyes, he kisses that familiar mouth ghosting his lips and it feels like he is still in a dream. He pulls away slightly, draping an arm across Illya's naked chest, stroking in small circles.

“Hmm, how did we get into bed?”  

“Does it matter?” Illya whispers as Napoleon opens his eyes, his vision slightly blurred. He closes them, then opens them again. After a moment, he sighs and smiles.

  “It’s a good thing we had that so called argument. A good thing indeed.”

“But there is never a good reason to see you get injured, Cowboy. Never.”

Napoleon kisses Illya before he could get into the dreaded topic again.   

“I take it you slept well?” he says instead, as his hand moves down towards Illya’s torso, who has to lock eyes with Napoleon to stop himself from losing their argument again.

“Stop changing the subject. I’m serious, Solo.”  

Napoleon draws a shuddery breath as Illya’s fingers thread his hair gently. He has to address the situation, especially after what they had done. 

“I’ll try to be more careful the next time.”

“You have to promise me, Cowboy. _Please._ ”

The seriousness in Illya’s voice, with that small pleading tone in the end, makes Napoleon relent and nods.  

“You know, I dreamt about Istanbul, our first real mission with UNCLE,” he says simply a few seconds later. “It was in Istanbul that I realised you and I have something going on, Peril.”

Napoleon can feel Illya smiling against his neck, then a tongue tracing a pattern back before he brushes his lips against Napoleon’s. 

“You lie, Cowboy. You know it started in Rome.”

Slowly, passionately, forcing Napoleon’s lips to part under his own, Illya kisses him long and hard. They play along a little while before Napoleon pulls away slightly and the intense look in his eyes makes Illya’s breath hitch, his whole body tingling in anticipation.  

“You’re right. I lied. It’s Rome indeed,” Napoleon smiles before he captures Illya’s lips once again.

**Author's Note:**

> This little fic is written for Chasingmusesrp on Tumblr. :)


End file.
